From Rejected Mate to Luna (Julia White) novel Chapter 229

Chapter 229

Julia’s POV

A kiss pulled me from sleep. Matthew’s lips pressed against mine, warm and familiar. My eyes opened to golden morning light streaming through the airplane window. Paris stretched below us, the Eiffel Tower piercing the horizon like a needle

through fabric.

“We’re here, little wolf,” Matthew whispered through our matebond. His excitement crashed into me in waves.

I couldn’t speak. Paris. Actually Paris. My fingers gripped his, both anchoring and seeking stability as we disembarked.

The taxi ride from the airport was a blur of narrow streets and historic architecture. Morning light painted the city gold, glinting off the Seine as we crossed one of its many bridges. Matthew pointed out landmarks, his voice a steady anchor against the dizzying newness. When we pulled up to our hotel–a grand building with ornate façade and doormen in crisp uniforms–my wolf’s anxiety spiked again. Too much. Too different. Too exposed.

The hotel suite was oppressive in its luxury. Ornate furniture. Pristine sheets. A perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. But something felt wrong. My skin prickled. Kaia, my wolf, bristled inside me, hackles raised at the foreign scents–polished wood, strange perfumes, metal in the ventilation.

“It’s normal,” Matthew said, noticing my discomfort. “Foreign territory. Your wolf’s instincts.”

He moved behind me, arms encircling my waist. His scent–forest and earth–enveloped me. He nuzzled my neck, deliberately marking the room with his essence. The tension in my muscles eased.

“Better?” he asked.

I turned in his arms and kissed him. My first kiss in Paris. The anxiety dissolved.

The Eiffel Tower loomed above us, casting long shadows across the crowd. Matthew’s posture shifted in the sea of strangers–shoulders squared, body angled to shield me, eyes constantly scanning. I felt the difference between us. His Alpha instincts made him a protector. Mine made me hyperaware of every scent, sound, movement.

At the Louvre, I spotted French medical workers near a café. Their uniforms differed from American ones–subtle variations in cut and color. Matthew indulged my professional curiosity with patient smiles.

“Always the nurse,” he teased, squeezing my hand.

Leaving the museum, hunger gnawed at us. We found ourselves on a narrow side street, surrounded by quaint cafés. A waiter approached with rapid–fire French. I froze, the foreign words washing over me like a tidal wave.

I didn’t think about the language barrier,” I whispered to Matthew, anxiety creeping back.

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To my shock, Matthew responded in perfect French, his voice smooth and confident. He chatted with the waiter, who

nodded enthusiastically, gesturing toward a table by the window.

“You speak French?” I stared at him as we sat down.

He shrugged, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “I had a lot of time alone after Rachel, Learned a few languages.”

“A few?” My eyebrows shot up.

“French, Italian, some Spanish.” He looked almost embarrassed. “It helped fill the nights.”

I reached across the table, squeezing his hand. Another layer of this complex man revealed. My heart swelled with

unexpected pride.

The waiter returned. Matthew ordered for us without hesitation, the foreign syllables rolling off his tongue naturally. I watched, mesmerized by this hidden talent.

“What did you order?” I asked when the waiter left.

“Trust me,” he winked. “Local specialties.”

When the food arrived–duck confit, ratatouille, fresh bread with butter so yellow it looked like sunshine–the flavors exploded on my tongue. My enhanced senses detected every herb, every subtle spice.

“This is incredible,” I managed between bites.

Matthew smiled, satisfaction flowing through our bond. “Wait until dessert.”

Throughout the meal, he conversed easily with the staff, translating their recommendations and stories. I found myself falling for him all over again, watching him navigate this world so effortlessly, building bridges where I saw only walls.

At Notre–Dame, we whispered about wolves hiding in ancient places. A historic pharmacy pulled me in, its shelves of antique remedies fascinating. Matthew waited, watchful but content to let me explore.

Night fell. The Seine glittered beneath a full moon. We boarded a dinner cruise, the city lights reflecting on the dark water. I leaned against Matthew, breathing in the moment.

Then he stiffened. His muscles tensed under my hand.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

His jaw clenched. “Wolves. Local pack.”

My pulse quickened. “How many?”

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Chapter 229

“Can’t tell. I smell them on the shore. His voice tightened. “I didn’t notify the Alpha here. Wanted the trip to be a

surprise.”

The tension in his body poured through our bond. I felt his conflict–torn between protecting me and preserving our

honeymoon.

“International etiquette says we should’ve checked in,” he explained. “If they approach, it could get messy.”

I squeezed his hand. “Let’s respect their rules but keep a low profile.”

He nodded, but his body remained rigid, positioned like a shield between me and the other passengers. His Alpha instincts were primal, fierce. Something deep inside me responded to that–a mixture of admiration and need.

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